Stars
by Rosalyn Hart
Summary: Dark, introspective piece about my favorite Ronin. May or may not be added to later-WARNING: dark themes.


Blue sneakers squished softly in the mud as he walked away from the mansion, listening to the sound of his friends' laughter fade away. Their boisterous jokes. Their insipid conversation.

A walk. Yes, that's what he wanted. No thanks, he'd rather be alone.

He wore no jacket in the cool air and goose bumps rose to the surface of his arms as he crossed the manicured lawn and entered the woods. The twilight left strange shadows on the forest floor as he passed gnarled trees and rushing streams. There was almost no noise, a late autumn wind had stolen the songbird's voices and left a mournful howling in their wake.

The mud and the stagnant puddles soaked through his shoes, but he didn't care. Mud and leaves stuck to the bottom of his sneakers, and he resisted the urge to scrape it all off with a stick. He crunched through leaves, leaving the path to travel deeper into the forest.

The sight and scent of nature around him brought him no joy. The trees stared at him ominously, their branches reaching, reaching. He wished he could join them. These spirits trapped forever in trees, innumerable soldiers in the vast landscape. He gazed at the tree in awe. These massive creations didn't bleed. They didn't cry out in pain or become weary with the toil of the day. They simply lived. They grew. They thrived.

He stopped, staring up at the branches of a massive tree. He didn't know what kind of tree it was, and the thought made him chuckle darkly. The brainy one. The smart one. That's what they all called him, believed him to be. But he had them fooled. He didn't even know what kind of tree stood before him.

Rowen looked up once more at the massive tree and shivered. How badly he wished to join these great ancients. Once, he had been told that trees were the spirits of those who had never truly lived as humans. They were trapped in this form, constantly reaching towards heaven. They grew and thrived, hoping desperately to gain access to heaven through their stretching braches and blossoming fruits. Their flowers and roots, digging deep into the earth, their trunk spreading out thickly, all in an attempt to find the meaning of true life.

He looked up at the canopy of dying leaves, silhouetted in the pale light of morning. Pinpricks of light shone through where the leaves gave way to the gray sky beyond. Shining, twinkling dots of light like stars. He smiled. Beautiful, beautiful stars. Placing a hand on the rough trunk of the massive tree, he began to climb.

Arm over arm he climbed, grabbing trunk and branches, clumps of leaves in his haste. Blood dribbled down his knee as he scraped it on the rough bark and he scowled in annoyance, climbing higher. Higher towards the stars, the beautiful, peaceful stars.

He reached out a hand, finally climbing high enough to touch the light and cup it in the palm of his hand, hold it close to his heart and—his hand reached through the canopy and into the open air. Looking down for a moment, Rowen was startled at the height. Startled that he'd climbed so high for the stars, only to find them an illusion. He frowned, clenching his fist in frustration and tried not to let the tears that threatened to fall escape.

His life was like a children's story. The unlikely hero rises from the ashes of his horrible, nightmarish childhood to save humanity. Throughout the war with the Dynasty, he had kept his eyes on the prize. He had wanted to save the world, save its people; all those innocents.

Rowen paused, looking down at the ground again. Blinking away the tears in his eyes, he climbed higher.

He had done his job. He had fought the good fight. His life was a hero's saga. Filled with danger and intrigue. But now that the danger was over, what more was there to the hero's life?

Rowen reached beyond the canopy to the highest branch of the tree. Clinging lightly to the trunk as it swayed sickeningly under his weight, he scanned the surrounding forest for signs of his friends.

He wished that he had died in battle. Then maybe his hero's life would be complete and honorable. Perhaps he would be remembered if he died.

With an impatient sigh, Rowen allowed the tears to leak out the corners of his eyes. They weren't coming. They weren't coming to save him after all. Nor would Strata help him. He had left his armor orb behind.

His life was a sad story. He wished it had ended long ago.

He tilted his head back and released the trunk of the tree, twisting his body backwards as he fell. Branches and leaves rushed past him, breaking in his chaotic tumble. But he paid no mind when his body crashed though the canopy—he was staring at the sky.

The sky was so beautiful, gray had given way to a blue indigo base with white fluffy clouds, scattered across it. Yet he knew the deceit of the blue, and strained his eyes to look beyond the blue blanket to see the stars. His beautiful, beautiful stars. They were hidden, but he would be with them soon. And as he struck the forest floor, his body smashed to ruins, his stars flashed before his eyes, twinkling at him in a sea of blackness; and he smiled.


End file.
